


Roswell Tumblr Fic Collection

by forgadgetsandgizmos



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [2]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Air Force, Alex Manes Needs a Hug, Alex Manes Week 2020, Alternate Universe, BAMF Alex Manes, Blood and Injury, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Michael Guerin, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jesse Manes is His Own Warning, Louise Truman - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Mythology References, Nora Truman - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pod Squad (Roswell), Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24314173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgadgetsandgizmos/pseuds/forgadgetsandgizmos
Summary: A collection for my tumblr fics.Most recent:Chapter 4- Alex attends Jesse's funeral. (Drabble from Alex Manes Week 2020)Chapter 5- Malex AU inspired by the novelThe Song of Achillesby Madeline Miller.Chapter 6- Malex; Michael is hurt. Alex is frantic.
Relationships: Alex Manes & Gregory Manes, Forrest Long/Alex Manes, Isabel Evans & Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin & Alex Manes, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Series: Tumblr Ficlets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1755271
Comments: 6
Kudos: 75





	1. Michael & Isobel Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Isobel talk about their moms.

Michael couldn’t breathe. Isobel’s voice blurred in his ears. A tiny voice in his mind told him he should listen, that this didn’t necessarily mean anything. A louder voice screamed that in Roswell, there were no coincidences. 

“-mom, I mean, do you think we look alike,” Isobel breathed. “We have the same hair, if you look really close.” She was squinting now, probably determined to find some similarity between herself and the faded woman smiling back at her. 

It was the barely legible name written on the back that Michael was staring at. 

Louise _Truman._

Michael tore his attention away from the photograph and back to Isobel’s expectant gaze. 

He closed his eyes. “I think she’s your mom. We’ve wondered why we together, the three of us, but if this, if Louise is your mom,” he corrected, voice shaking, “that would explain it.”

“What are you talking about?”

Michael merely plucked the photograph from her hand and flipped it over. 

Isobel blinked.

“And my mom was Nora Truman. They were…” Michael ran his hands through his hair. 

“Related,” Isobel finished. “Sisters, maybe, or... married?” Her voice softened to barely a whisper at the idea.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. For the first time in years, Michael found himself resenting the tight walls of the Airstream. He was suffocating.

An abrupt laugh broke the silence. “Michael, this means we’re related.” She was grinning at him, a smile wider than Michael had from her seen in months. She set the picture on a ledge beside her, half-forgotten. “I can’t believe I –“she broke off, laughing again. “I’ve been trying to find out about my family because I thought it would give me, I don’t know, a sense of purpose. Or direction? And it turns, the brother I’ve had all along is exactly what I was looking for.” 

“Is, it’s just a name. We don’t know, it could mean anything.” 

“No,” Isobel stated firmly. “They reported their names as Nora and Louise Truman. Why lie? Even if they _are_ sisters, that makes us cousins, Michael!” 

Michael felt his mouth curve to match hers. “I guess it does,” he drawled. 

“Michael.” 

He met her eyes, wide with shock and happiness and something else Michael didn’t recognize. 

“We’ve always been family. You’re my brother. Now,” she gestured to the open files around them aimlessly. “Now, we’re family.”

Michael knew what she meant. The three of them, him, Max, and Isobel, would always be family. At worst, they were more closely related to each other than any human. This hit different – they were blood. 

He glanced back to the photograph of a smiling Nora and Louise. “I guess we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos bring my joy (:
> 
> Visit me on tumblr at [forgadgetsandgizmos](https://forgadgetsandgizmos.tumblr.com/)


	2. Forlex - Purple Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex talks with Forrest about how he got his purple heart.

“This is one hell of a thing to keep hidden away in a box.”

Alex’s stomach dropped at the sight of the open box in Forrest’s hand. He hadn’t touched it in months, since he moved to Roswell at least, and it showed in the thick layer of dust that had accrued. The metal inside gleamed. 

“Put that away.” Alex darted his eyes back to his own box he was searching through. 

“It’s impressive. It doesn’t even look worn.” 

“That’s because it’s never been worn.”

“What,” Forrest exclaimed loudly, jaw dropping. “But - it’s so impressive, you should have it on display at least! Why is it hidden away?”

“Because it’s not a good thing,” Alex snapped. He felt Forrest’s steady eyes on him. “I got that metal because I lost - lost my leg. An IED killed my entire team clean off. One second they were fine and the next-“ He felt the cardboard crumble under his hands. Alex laughed bitterly. “I dragged myself away from their burning bodies.” Literally dragged, because my leg was hanging on by a thread.”

Forrest placed his hand atop Alex’s and squeezed. Alex gave a weak smile back. He knew what it meant. Knew Forrest. Alex had listened to his nightmares before too.

“They gave me a metal because I lost my leg in service. Everyone assumes I should be proud of it...” Alex shook his head. “I just see the bodies of the first family I was proud to be a part of.”

“Okay,” Forrest said quietly. 

“Okay?” 

“Okay.” He snapped the box shut and tossed it back into the box he found it in. It fell with a bang as it crashed against whatever else was buried in there. “If it’s not important to you, it’s not important. Who cares what other people say?”

Alex’s lips twitched as he stared. 

“Have you by chance found that waffle maker? I’m famished.” He patted his hand on his belly dramatically.

“Famished,” Alex chuckled. “Who says famished?”

Forrest tilted his head and scrunched up his eyes in mocking thought. “Ex-military, history buff, Nazi-nerds, that’s who.” 

Alex laughed this time, listening to it echo around his small storage closet. 

“Help me look for the waffle maker instead of getting distracted by fancy jewelry and you might get some food.” 

“Okay, I see how it is,” Forrest smirked. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Alex’s. “As you wish, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos bring my joy (:
> 
> Visit me on tumblr at [forgadgetsandgizmos](https://forgadgetsandgizmos.tumblr.com/)


	3. Malex - Thank You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael helps Alex deal with a death.

No one had seen Alex in three days. Which, okay, he left town frequently enough for the Air Force that it could be no big deal. But ever since Alex spent a week in a basement because everyone, including Michael, thought he was at a recruitment job out of town, Alex checked in when he left. Usually with Michael. And Alex hadn’t told Michael that he was planning on leaving, much less checked in.

Michael should’ve let it go. No one else is worried, there’s no dangers around, no lingering threat that could result in Alex being missing or worse. But Michael couldn’t shake the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

And he kept circling back to _Alex hadn’t told him that he was leaving_. 

Which is how he ended up here, standing in Alex’s driveway and staring at the old Christmas lights still dangling from the porch, trying to shake off his paranoia without invading his friend’s private space. 

On second thought, that’s exactly what he did last time and he turned out to be right. He started for the door. The game plan that time around had been _Find Alex_ , and okay, it was the same here. Whatever, it was a good plan. At least this time he knows where the spare key is kept. 

Michael jogged the last couple steps up to Alex’s front door and knocked loudly. “Alex?” 

No response. He stood on his toes to peer inside through the glass in the top of the door. From what he could see, none of the lights were on and no one was moving around inside. 

“Alex, I’m worried about you,” he tried. He knocked on the door a few more times. “If you don’t answer, I’m coming in. He backed away to dig the key out of a bottle buried nearby. “Using the spare key,” he added. If Alex was inside, it probably wouldn’t be helpful if he thought Michael was going to telekinetically break his lock. 

When he was met with more silence, Michael unlocked the door and took a hesitant step in. 

“Alex?” 

He made his way around the house. The kitchen held a small pile of take out bags and dirty, plastic containers. Alex was here then, and eating. That was always good, Michael acknowledged. 

He walked over to Alex’s bedroom door and knocked quietly, cracking open the door as he did and poking his head inside. A blindness darkness greeted him. 

Michael blinked quickly, trying to help his eyes adjust as he took in the room. Heavy, drawn curtains blocked any light from the windows. Two large, empty bottles sat on the bedside table closest to the door. It was too dark to be sure, but the thin, tall neck made Michael think it was tequila. The bed held a pile of blankets surrounding a curled up figure in the center. 

Michael let out a breath, his shoulders slumping. 

“Alex, it’s me. Can I come in?” 

He received a faint _humm_ in response. 

Taking that as a yes, Michael slipped into the room and shut the door behind him, careful not to make any loud noises. He slowly inched closer to the bed Alex had buried himself in. He wasn’t sure what the protocol here was. Alex was physically fine; Michael could see enough to make out the movement of the blankets from Alex breathing. Strands of hair peeked out of the fuzz pile and the sunlight in the hall shined back at him from Alex’s prosthetic where it was laying on the floor near the bed. 

But Alex obviously wasn’t fine. From what Michael had seen, Alex had apparently spent the past three days of avoiding his friends in bed, ordering takeout, and day-drinking. While Michael may not have much experience with avoiding worried friends, he _did_ have a decade spent deep-diving into a bottle or three in his belt, and multiple empty maybe-tequila bottles did not equal _fine_.

“Alex, what’s going on,” Michael whispered. He sat on the edge of the bed with one leg still on the floor, hand hovering over Alex’s body as he waited for a response. 

After a few seconds, Alex reached a hand out of his pile and pulled the blanket closest to him tightly, framing his face. 

“What are you doing here,” he croaked out, eyes still closed. 

“I was worried about you. You haven’t responded to me or anyone else in three days.” 

“I’m fine.” 

Michael caught the blanket before Alex could pull it back over his head. “I see that,” he noted dryly. 

Alex huffed and opened his eyes. “I am. You can go now.” 

“Not until you tell me why you’ve been avoiding everyone in favor of alcohol and shitty take-out.” Michael kicked off his shoes and crawled over Alex onto the bed. He leaned against the headboard and closed his eyes. “I can sit here all day.” 

He opened one eye to see Alex glaring up at him. “I’ll just listen,” Michael offered. 

Another huff. 

Michael closed his eye again and waited. A minute or two later, he felt the mattress moving under him. He opened both eyes to see Alex sitting up beside him and offered him a smile. 

Alex’s lips twitched in response and Michael felt his own widen to a grin.

Michael waited patiently beside him. 

“I got a phone call,” Alex started. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor well-away from Michael as he spoke. “I loved being in my squadron. Some of the guys were family in a way I hadn’t had before, you know?” 

Loved. Were. Michael stopped smiling.

“Flint and Clay always felt really distant. When I was a kid, I thought it was because they remember Mom. And I love Gregory, but we weren’t super close as kids.”

And Flint and Clay were two peas in a Jesse-spawn pod, Michael wanted to add. 

“We has to be together all the time, we didn’t have a choice but to get close. There were four of us that were,” Alex tutted, searching for the word. “I don’t know. Saying brothers feels weird considering my real brothers.”

“I get it,” Michael said softly. He and Max and Isobel, they weren’t actually siblings. But Max and Iz were so important to him, to his life on Earth, and to his past, that calling them brother and sister felt inadequate. “They were real. What brothers should be.”

Alex nodded. “Besides me, it was Hunter, Jamie, and Patrick. Hunter and Jamie died in the same explosion that blew off my leg. Which. . . sucked. But Patrick was okay. He stayed with me as long as he could in the hospital in Germany. He missed their funerals to stay with me.” He took a steadying breath. “He had to ship out eventually. He was assigned a new unit and left for an eight month tour about six months ago.”

Alex looked up to meet Michael’s eyes. He schooled his face, trying to project a sense of calmness and security. He just hoped that the grief and pain and mourning he saw in Alex’s eyes wasn’t echoed in his own. 

When Alex spoke again, it was so soft Michael had too strain to make out the words. “Patrick’s new unit chief called three days ago. He - he’s dead.” Alex voice shook as he choked back a sob and leaned into Michael. 

Michael gripped Alex tightly and pressed his lips to his forehead. Michael didn’t - he couldn’t comfort this. He had lost a whole world. . . but he hadn’t know them. He lost his mom but, so had Alex. She might not technically be dead, but she had left when he was so young and stayed gone so long that she might as well be. The only think Michael had to compare was Isobel and Max and if he lost them. . . well. He’s sure he would be in the drunk tank in a lot worse shape than this. 

“Alex,” Michael said softly, turning to press his cheek against Alex’s head, “When I was a kid, I spent years imaging what it would be like to lose Max and Isobel, either when they got sick of me and left or if they got caught and were killed. I planned out how to be alone, as much as it killed me to admit that, since that implies I wasn’t alone with them,” he chucked lowly. 

Michael buried his free hand in Alex’s hair, letting the soft, dark strands run through his fingers. Alex stayed quiet. “I stopped because I met someone who was different. He treated me the same way Max and Iz did and no one had ever done that before. In my experience, people weren’t just nice for no reason. Even Max and Iz treated me like they did because they viewed me as their brother. And this guy, I could never seem to drive him away. And I certainly tried my best,” he admitted, “especially after graduation. He was the fucking sun and he made me realize that I wasn’t better than everyone else. It kinda opened up my world.”

Alex stirred at that. “Life isn’t a rom-com, Michael.”

“Okay, but it is a telenovela. I mean hello, alien from outer space here.”

Underneath him, Alex made a sound that reminded him a baby whining. 

“You interrupted. There was more,” Michael chided jokingly. He gave Alex a light flick on the head. “I would still fall apart if I lost Max and Iz. That hasn’t changed. But I would want to keep on going now. Because of you. And you don’t have to get over this or be okay because of me, that’s not what I’m saying-“

“Michael.” 

Michael shut up. “Sorry,” he murmured. 

Alex finally moved from his half-laying down, half-sitting up position and looked at Michael. “I get it.” 

“You do?”

“I do.” Alex smiled sadly at him and let his hand hover over the side of Michael’s face. “Thank you.”

Michael’s eyes lightened. “Thank _you_ ,” he returned. They were words he’s been waiting to say to Alex for over a decade. Since they were seventeen and stupid in love. He owes Alex _so much_.

They weren’t seventeen anymore. Picking a place to make-out that wasn’t the pickup of Michael’s truck was no longer their biggest hurdle. Now, that would have to be a toss up between the giant government conspiracy, the alien-DNA-targeting-bomb, and the various murders him and his siblings were hiding. 

No, they definitely weren’t seventeen anymore. But as Alex curdled back up under his blanket mound and buried himself into Michael’s side, Michael knew that, for him, that was the only thing that had changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos bring my joy (:
> 
> Visit me on tumblr at [forgadgetsandgizmos](https://forgadgetsandgizmos.tumblr.com/)


	4. Alex - Post S2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex attends Jesse's funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a drabble for war day of Alex Manes Week 2020 that I never finished but thought I'd post this part at least, for day 7.

The worst thing about funerals was that Alex had to wear his dress blues. He hated wearing them, would rather be in fatigues any day. He didn’t use to hate them; in blues, he knew exactly who he was and how to act: professional, confident, unencumbered. He could live on autopilot. 

But now, those same traits that used to make it a safe haven for him made it a straitjacket, slowly suffocating him every time he put it on. 

A Captain couldn’t sit to prevent his prosthetic digging in or limp from the resulting muscle cramps. He couldn’t wave off compliments and praises of his supposed heroism when the metals detailing them adorned his jacket in prime view. A Captain must show sympathy and sadness when there is none and when there _is_ , present as calm and collected despite each shovel of dirt adding to the crushing weight pressing on his chest. And ironically, it seemed that his increase in rank came with an obligated funeral per month. 

Today, sitting beside his brothers in a crowd of somber faces and hollow sincerities, watching the Honor Guard fold an American flag to place in Clay’s arms, every one of those things he so despises felt as minute as a stray raindrop on his back. People had flown in from across the country to be here, be they Jesse's various Air Force buddies from over the years or co-workers who, like Alex, were obligated to attend due to rank or a position working with Jesse or his sons. As Jesse's oldest, Clay was asked if they wanted any additional phrases on his gravestone other than his name, traditional military rank, and birth to death dates. He’d declined. Alex was slightly embarrassed about how smug he felt at it, that his father would receive no more honor or fuss than the bare minimum required of them by a society full of sons who love their fathers. This drawn out service was all already more than Jesse Manes deserved.

Everyone around him stood for the lowering of the casket. He stayed sitting. One (the only) benefit of his injury? When he brought his crutch, he didn’t have to stand at attention, though he still saluted the body with his brothers. He clenched his jaw shut – he wouldn’t smirk, he would not smirk at a funeral. Not even this one. He’d never live it down. 

The rest of the funeral was a blur. The after-service was being held at Jesse’s house, his childhood home. Alex had refused to allow it to be held at _his_ small house and no one else lived close enough to host. It would be that house’s last hoorah before being sold, since none of the siblings had any particular attachment to their childhood home. Alex would be glad when any lingering ties to that shed were finally as dead and buried as Jesse. 

“Ready to go?” Greg hovered to his side, just out of eyesight, ready to lend a hand. 

Alex glanced one last time at the bare headstone before turning his back. Greg stepped closer and stood by his side, facing the line of cars, and they started forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos bring my joy (: 
> 
> Visit me on tumblr at [forgadgetsandgizmos](https://forgadgetsandgizmos.tumblr.com/)


	5. There Were No Words To Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How ironic that the first time Alexander felt he understood what it meant to be a defender of man was also the first time he killed one.
> 
> Inspired by The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was posted separately under the chapter title before I had this ficlet series but it's a little to short to be its own post, since it's not part of a event or anything. So if you happen to have read this before, nothing has changed except its location. 
> 
> This book (The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller) is really amazing and emotional. Definitely give it a read, guys.

How ironic that the first time Alexander felt he understood what it meant to be a defender of man was also the first time he killed one.

—

Alexander preferred to spend his days with Mother. She was a simple woman with few thoughts of her own, but she held a happiness in her that made him happy as well.

Father sneered but allowed it – a sickly spare was of no consequence when he had three stronger sons and more to come.

“A waste,” Father declared.

Alexander said nothing to that. What was there to say? He did not choose how he was born, and there was nothing to be done that could change it now.

So, while his brothers trained to fight every dawn and tutored in strategy every afternoon, he wondered empty stone halls with Mother.

At night, they would lay under the old moria in the courtyard garden and gaze up at the stars. He hung on her every word as she spun tales of the gods. She spoke until her words blurred together and his breathing grew steady in her arms.

That night, he woke again in his bed as her harp-song filled the room and flooded out into the hall. In his mind, she played for hours before meeting his eyes with a gentle smile.

“I have a gift for you, dear heart,” she whispered. She unfolded her hand and presented a small carving of a harp, perfectly painted to match the one she held in her arms. “A harp of your own to remember me by.”

He knew his eyes had never been so wide as he picked up the carving as if it was made of glass. Our little secret, her eyes twinkled.

Mother merely smiled again and tucked it under his pillow. Sleep, and he did as her lullaby filled his room once more.

—

He was young, too young to remember the exact age, the first time he called to Mother and she refused him. He thought it strange. It was night but the hall was silent.

An aging woman with a firm hand and a strange look in her eye put him in bed.

He fell into a fitful sleep still waiting on Mother to arrive.

—

He hadn’t understood then. He learned, slowly, that he would be sleeping in silence now. Learned that the firm hand of servants and midwifes would be the only hand he felt. He learned there would be no more sons.

Mother was dead. And the name Alexander, defender of men, became his curse.

—

“She ruined you,” Father seethed, “and now I have to fix it.” Fix you, he meant.

A king couldn’t have a son preferring the harp to the sword. Princes lead armies in battle, they don’t hum lullabies and cling to childhood toys. Alexander understood that now, though it was lesson he had not relished learning.

His brothers held no refuge. If he served any purpose in their eyes, it was to draw Father’s attention away from them.

—

He traced the lines of the wooden harp until every trace of color had faded.

—

Alexander joined his brothers in training. He could barely hold the wooden training swords.

His brothers’ betrothed laughed at his efforts during their walks through the courtyard.

He didn’t listen. His arms trembled, but a hint of approval shone in Father’s eyes.

He picked up the sword again.

—

He was twelve when he first left their kingdom. He was to travel to King Tyndareous to compete for the hand of his daughter.

He knew it would prove pointless. Father knew as well as he she would have far better suitors to pick from – legends of her beautiful had reached them long ago.

He did not dare question his Father’s decision and risk him changing his mind, merely accepted the direction and promised not to prove an embarrassment.

Not even Father’s worsening glare at every bump of the carriage could taint the pure, utter joy of leaving.

—

The court of Tyndareous was a busy place, drenched in finery and powerful people who traveled far and wide to court the beauty that was Helen of Troy. Alexander was in awe. Not of the fine tapestries, not the chests overflowing in rare gifts, or the indulgent feast far larger than needed, for he has seen such finery before. His father was a proud king who often boasted of his wealth.

No, Alexander’s eyes were drawn to a boy who seemed to glow, a beacon calling out to him.

The boy was a god on earth. Or more accurately, a demigod, if Alexander believed the rumors claiming the boy was Michelakos, son of King Peleus and the sea-nymph goddess Thetis.

It was not a claim he found difficult to believe.

Michelakos was everything Alexander was not. He won every race, every fight, every argument. He was proud and boisterous. He left his golden curls free to tangle in the wind.

He was himself. Call me Michael, Alexander had heard him offer to kings and bastards alike. No one dared to tell him that was improper, not with his lineage and the prophecy that followed. Michael was radiant. Michael glowed.

A heavy hand tightened around Alexander’s neck.“That’s what a prince should be,” followed, hissed in his ear. What a son should be, that sour tone implied, singing with the familiar promise of pain.

Michael’s laugh filled the room and Alexander couldn’t bring himself to care.

—

It wouldn’t be until after (after he gave his oath to protect Helen and her future husband, after he was turned away as expected, after his father grumbled again at his failure) that he wandered away from the bustle of court.

Valenti followed, said they play. Alexander didn’t want him to.

They made it to the creek and found a towering moria. Alexander watched Valenti climb the old wood, yelling and laughing. Alexander went to run his fingers over his harp, tucked safely in his pocket.

“Look for something?” Flecks of leftover paint caught the sun from where Valenti held his harp in the tree.

“That’s mine,” he cried. He darted up the tree to get it back, faster than he ever had in his life. “Give it back!”

Alexander didn’t know how it happened. One second he was yelling and fighting over his harp (with Valenti, who was strong and fast and could have anything else he wanted but took the one thing that his) and the next, Alexander had his harp.

But it was silent. He was alone in the tree, and a broken body staring back up at him.

—

“You should have lied.”

Alexander jerked his head up from where it lay in his hands to see Michael leaning casually against a pillar before him.

“Now, you are no one. Not a prince or a son, just another orphan of Peleus.” Careful, brown-gold eyes (a reflection of Zeus’ favor, perhaps) watched for a reaction.

Alexander had none. An orphan of Peleus… his father had chosen exile after all. He was not surprised. A prince’s funeral would be a costly expense. Now, it would be as if he had never existed to stain his father’s name in the first place.

Neither boy spoke for a long time. There was nothing to say.

Alexander had told everyone what happened, that it was an accident. It had not occurred to him until well after that the scowl on Father’s face was not because Alexander had killed Valenti, but because he told the truth.

And yet, staring at Michael, still dressed in finery, wild hair still glowing, Alexander remembered how he felt that day in the hall. He’d been inspired.

He would not – could not – think about the body on rocky shore, but if he had lied…

If he had lied, he would still be the weak, cowardly Prince Alexander of Jacobus, with all the wealth and responsibility that come with that name.

Alexander did not want to be a lying Prince Alexander, who grew up frozen in the clash between his dreams and a father’s expectations.

And now he wasn’t. It must be a gift from the gods, then. They used his ignorance to answer his prayer and lift his curse.

He stood, grinning madly at Michael’s thinly-masked shock. “I’m Alex.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos bring me joy (:
> 
> Visit me on tumblr at [forgadgetsandgizmos](https://forgadgetsandgizmos.tumblr.com/)


	6. Crimson - Malex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t expected, the blood. A line from one of Iz’s medical shows crossed his mind; everyone knows how many pints of blood are _in_ the body, but no one ever thinks about how much blood that is _outside_ the body. 
> 
> Does that even apply to him? It doesn’t matter. Blood is blood. It stains everything crimson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a Malex version of a Sterek drabble I've written before. If it seems familiar, that's why! This imagining of it was a bit of a jumpstart for me to keep writing, and I figure I may as well post it. 
> 
> Not-beta'd but hopefully I caught any mistakes. Enjoy!
> 
>  **TW:** The ending of this is intentionally vague and up to the interpretation of the reader, but it does strongly imply major character death and the character in question _does_ believe he's dying. If that's too much for you, don't read this! Alternatively, you can just choose free to believe everything turned out just fine as that's an equally possible outcome.

It wasn’t expected, the blood. A line from one of Iz’s medical shows crossed his mind; everyone knows how many pints of blood are _in_ the body, but no one ever thinks about how much blood that is _outside_ the body. 

Does that even apply to him? It doesn’t matter. Blood is blood. It stains everything crimson. 

_Please—_

_Michael—_

A voice broke through the fog clouding his mind. He focused on it, the constant murmur bringing him comfort. 

“Wake up, please, you need to wake up. Hold on for me,” the voice begged. He wanted it to stop. 

He willed his eyes to open, faintly aware of a hand cupping his cheek and another pressed again his stomach. He wanted to open them, to look at the owner of this voice and take away whatever was causing his pain. But his eyes felt as though they were weighed down by bricks and when he tried to speak, nothing but silence came out. His head drooped back down against the rough concrete below him. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You’re going to be okay, you’re going to be fine. Max knows we’re here and he’s on his way,” the voice — Alex, how could he have forgotten _Alex_ — choked out. 

Michael finally cracked his eyes open enough to see a pair of dark eyes, wide with alarm, looking over him. He placed his hand over the one on his chest. Alex jerked, his gaze flying to Michael’s face. 

Michael blinked up at him. He tried to smile, to bring him a sense of comfort, but Alex’s face twisted. Alex’s lower lip trembled, his hand now hovering just above Michael’s body, with Michael’s hand still around his wrist.

A car engine echoed in the empty room. Alex jerked around, sending a fresh pain shooting through Michael’s body. 

Michael bit back a hiss of pain. Not well enough, because Alex froze above him and slowly turned back towards him, moving his hands to lower Michael gently to the ground. 

“That’s Max,” Alex breathed. “I’ll bring him here and he’ll heal you. You’re going to be fine, see?” Alex pressed his lips to Michael’s forehead in a hasty kiss. 

Max was still weak and the damage to Michael’s body was too extensive. Michael was going to die. He stuttered, trying to tell him what he wanted to so badly. 

_Don’t leave._

He was dying and at peace with that, but he didn’t want to die alone. Before he could make a sound, Alex was off, racing towards Max despite the limp Michael knew was there.

Michael let his eyes flutter shut when Alex’s figure grew too small for him to make out. The concrete no longer felt cold against his skin, his blood no longer burning hot in comparison. Distance voices rang out, sentence filled with words he couldn’t distinguish. At least this way, someone else might find his body. Kyle, maybe, or Isobel. She can handle it. Alex can be spared that, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos bring me joy (:
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr at [forgadgetsandgizmos](https://forgadgetsandgizmos.tumblr.com/)


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